Some lines are poetry:
“As the blood left his body at an inevitable rate and made carmine the surrounding snow—snow that, under different circumstances, would have looked beautiful as it looked beautiful to Pushkin when he was a boy and the silent whiteness of wintry visitations upon lake and wood and hawthorn bush seemed a tableau worthy of God’s hiemal pen—clarity of mind replaced his blood. ”

Still, it wanders. I always feel your work (except your poetry, which I usually feel is strong and focused) is like a great work of wooden art buried in the sawdust of it’s creation. I always like it though.